The Art of Surviving
by gilgameshforeternity
Summary: Crossover w/Hunger Games. John is from district 7 and Sherlock becomes an important part of his life. Rating T for violence, rating will go up.
1. Chapter 1

John was, above anything else, resigned to his fate. His family had been towing the line of starvation since he was born and the moment he turned 12 and applied for a tessara, he'd accepted the fact his name would be in that bowl more times than his toes and fingers combined. It was a vicious cycle, having the grain and oil to look forward to and when it ran out and his family goes hungry, it would be so easy to just go back the next month and apply again, the reaping seemed so far away back then. The day had started off sunny, but it was bitingly cold outside and the younger of the children grouped together in their roped off sections, as if maybe standing a little closer would provide heat and safety. John hated the waiting part, watching everyone file in and then the suspense of watching their representative reach into the bowls for names.

There was always a hush that fell over the crowd after a name had been read off, a kind of district wide moment of grieving before the mentioned child was brought forward. So when his name was called, he felt that silence well up inside his chest and come to an anticlimactic rush of expected surprise. He watched the peace keepers come forward to escort him up to the podium and to what would undoubtedly be the beginning of his end.

Standing as tall and confident as possible he took his place next to the female tribute, 15 year old Brittany Lane. She, like him, looked small, but his body -from working in the lumber yards- had packed on some muscle and he felt a pain in his chest knowing that together they would face this looming darkness with not a bit of training in the world. Sure, he could swing an ax, lift some heavy stuff, but where was that going to get him? The pit in his stomach slowly turned into a black hole, consuming all his nerves and anxieties to leave him a numb shell. There was no way of backing out now. They're lead off stage moments later and John has a few seconds to himself inside the building to compose his feelings. His restraint is only then put to the test when his family comes in, Harry crying and looking distraught.

"John!"

She pulled him into a tight hug and it took all he had not to break down with her.

"I'll be okay Harry."

Looking at his parents he can see it in his mother's eyes, that passing look of hopefulness and the despair of watching her child be sent into a war zone. The Watson's huddled round as if in mourning for him, and John felt his chances getting smaller and smaller as he realized that leaving home and leaving his family would weigh heavier on his heart than any load of lumber he had to carry. It struck him even harder the moment his father pulled him just away from his mother and sister and pulled something from his pocket. John bit back a protest when he saw just what his father was holding. Resting in the middle of his hand was a small round piece of wood. Engraved on it were the names of their family and on the back the number of their district. He'd seen his father worry over it between his fingers when thinking, the wood worn smooth and the names faded.

"Da-"

"John," he stopped at the sound of his father's stern tone, "take this, as your token."

The effort he had to put into reaching out and taking the piece was astronomical and when it was safely in his own pocket the door opened. With a final goodbye he left the building and left behind the only life he had known. Time seemed to blur and images melted into one another as he was lead to the train with Brittany, when they ate dinner he barely tasted the food and when he watched the children of the other districts being reaped, grief and realization mingled into one large lump in his throat and he excused himself. He breezed through his assigned room, making for the bed and on top of which curled into a fetal position and worried the token between his fingers until sleep came.

His arrival to the Capitol was by no means a happy affair and the transition from forest to bleak city was jarring to say the least. The people were the strangest of all, a mash of colors and odd appearances didn't settle well in his stomach and he could only imagine what it would be like to finally meet his stylists.

If one could have an out of body experience and remember every little detail later on, John would prescribe to the validity of that theory. The other tributes varied in size and of course, class. Spotting the careers was easy enough as he stood next to his district partner. No one talked or made it obvious they were sizing the competition up, like some kind of pregame ritual that stealth and cunning were the weapons of choice. John had to wrap his mind around it finally, thinking of how strange it was that the person who could possible kill him in the arena was standing in the line with him, or that in pursuit of his survival, he would have to take the life of someone's child.

The ceremonies were a quick affair and after meeting his stylists and eating dinner, John felt the bleakness of his situation stir again the moment he'd stepped out of the elevator and onto the floor for district 7 and entered his room. What were his parents doing? Were they weeping for him, even his father? Was his district even proud that he was going to represent them? So many questions buzzed in his mind that he barely slept a wink before the official training began the next day. There was no victor to give them direction and the one sent from the Capitol seemed flippant at best when offering advice. So he continued to move along as planned, letting himself be taken this way and that throughout the days of preparation until the games begun.

/

Within the Capitol the sadness and despair that most of the tributes were feeling was lost on them and was replaced by overwhelming levels of excitement. Everyone wanted to know who the tributes were before placing their initial bets and wagering on the lives of children. At least, everyone except for one who found the games to be exceedingly tiresome and the same run around kill each other plot as any other show on TV.

Sitting, rather morosely, on the couch of his brother's lavish home, Sherlock Holmes watched with disinterest as the interviews of the tributes began. He'd been under house arrest for three days now after pestering the peacekeeper headquarters one too many times on how they could be more efficient- they didn't take too kindly to 16 year old telling them what to do. This, to his annoyance meant being bombarded by the world of the Hunger Games, his brother and the man only being 20, held a place in the government related to the games and their inner workings. He sat, knees drawn up to his chest and tapped his fingers to a silent tune as Caesar Flickerman chatted with interest, dyed a deep crimson and looking all the more like a preserved doll.

The last tribute of district 6 was walking away from the stage when out of the corner of his eye Sherlock spotted movement and watched pointedly as Mycroft entered the room, a stack of papers in his hands and he seated himself down on the couch. None to discreetly Sherlock slid to the other side and continued to tap out rhythms.

"Sherlock, must you be so childish?"

"How's the diet?"

Mycroft didn't reply and continued to leaf through the papers. Satisfied with the silence Sherlock turned back to the TV, and mere seconds after Mycroft's attention cause the sound of his brother's incessant drumming come to a complete halt. Looking up to the screen he saw the blonde haired blue eyed tribute of district 7 smiling as Caesar Flickerman introduced him to the Capitol. He wore a simple tux and was, compared to the other male tributes, much shorter than them. It was then he heard Sherlock muttering to himself and he caught the telltale look that his brother was deducing and observing the young man rather intently.

Sherlock watched as the tribute, introduced as John Watson, talked about his family with a hint of sadness to his voice. He looked strong and even under the tuxedo Sherlock could easily tell the years of lumber work had made him into a formidable force in hand to hand combat. The interview ended as quickly as it started and Mycroft heard the tapping start up again. How interesting, his younger brother was intrigued by the tribute of district 7.

"Stop thinking, it's annoying," Sherlock growled.

"Sher-"

Mycroft didn't get to finish as the young boy swept away from the couch and disappeared into the house.

/

John could feel his heart hammering against his ribcage, it was time, and he stood in the tube ready to be sent to his death. The minute it started to rise and the paneling above opened cold wind flooded in. The big jacket and insulated pants should have tipped him off but he wasn't entirely ready for the sight stretched out before him when the platform stopped.

Wasteland was the first word that came to mind when he looked around. Not a tree or decent shelter in sight, just rocks and snow swirling in the wind and John felt an ominous gloom sweep over the group of tributes. Visibility low, chill factor high and he could just make out the glinting cornucopia and the dark pile of items stacked at its base. He was sorely tempted to head straight for them, but the massacres of previous games deterred him. Those who watched the games knew all too well the way 24 could easily drop to half when too many tributes hustled into one area. The countdown drifted on the wind, coming in and out of earshot so he stopped straining for the numbers and concentrated on trying to hear the gong.

The second it rang out he turned on the spot and sprinted away, the cold air bit into his lungs like daggers and he could hear the screams rise above the wind behind him. The slap of his shoes on the ground was dulled by the hard-packed earth and stopped completely when something snatched around his ankles. His chin took a beating when he fell suddenly, and throbbed accordingly as his teeth clicked together painfully. None of it registered though as the worst case scenarios ran through his mind lightening quick. Whipping around he scrambled to untangle himself from whatever wanted to do him harm, except his eyes zeroed in on the backpack straps tangled around his feet and relief flooded his system like a drug. A little calmer this time he kept his eyes peeled as he tugged the bag off and onto his back.

His breath formed into large clouds and streamed back into his face as the wind continued to whip around him. If there was one thing he was going to do, he was going to damn well live past the cornucopia. The clouds overhead made it hard to tell the time of day, but if this game was anything like the others, midday to afternoon would be his guess. The snow continued to bombard him, the flakes melting on contact and flying into his face, stinging his skin repetitively.

John was fairly sure no one had followed him from the cornucopia, enough so that he chanced a quick look in the bag. Inside the main pocket he found matches but no tinder, a thermal blanket, a flashlight and something wrapped in plastic he hoped was food. In the front pocket was a coil of rope and with that brief inspection he slung it back on, trying to put as much distance between him and the other tributes.

/

The beginning of the Hunger Games, as the Capitol witnessed it, was lackluster at best, snow flurried in front of the cameras making the initial bloodbath of the cornucopia hard to see. Mycroft hovered near the back of the room where the magic happened. Rows of circular desks surrounded a large pedestal in the middle of the room and projecting up from it was a 3D layout of the arena. On the projection each of the tributes had a tag and with it their information. The Hunger Games board was not the happiest at the moment; they set off the cannons as ten of the mini tribute figures faded into grey and watched as the cameras could barely focus through the snow on the bodies.

"This is great, best shots in the world," someone down the table grumbled flipping through the already recorded scenes on the screen before him.

"The storm should blow over soon, and then we'll get what we want."

Mycroft paid them no mind, the cornucopia was always a highlight of the games, where wages and bets would be put to the test and the fodder would be cleared away to show the tributes who were either lucky or skilled enough to get away. The board was busy trying to put some of the more interesting shots together when Mycroft felt his phone vibrate, pulling it out he felt mildly amused at what it said.

Who's dead? That footage is horrendous.  
>SH<p>

He swiftly typed a reply, if he even tried to give Sherlock the run around about details and security he knew he'd only be fooling himself. His younger brother wasn't one to go about flaunting that a relative of his was on the board for the Hunger Games, and he certainly wouldn't brag about knowing scores before anyone else.

D12 both, D11 boy, D10 both,  
>D7 girl, D6 both, D5 boy, D4 girl<br>M

Sherlock read the text the second it came to his phone, his heart did a weird sink and jump when he saw D7 then read 'girl' and his eyes flashed up to the screen. The Capitol was getting close up shots of the career group, the first few districts had huddled under an awning of rocks and were going through their supplies. At least he knew for a fact John was at lucky enough to make it out alive, he waited impatiently for the views to change.

Silently Sherlock steepled his hands, staring intently at the screen as he considered quickly what he was going to doing for the boy from District 7. There was the little detail that in the beginning ceremonies he hadn't even thought about sponsoring a tribute, it had never really occurred to him, except he when he saw John and John was more than a handsome face on the screen. He had the tired eyes of a boy grown into a man within years and yet the fire that burned behind them looked to be thriving. He knew for a fact Mycroft wouldn't dare deny him the interest he was rapidly gaining in the older boy, becoming his sponsor would be as easy as pressing send.

I will be the sponsor for D7's  
>boy, deny gifts from anyone else.<br>SH

Mycroft barely batted an eye when the text message popped up, in fact, he'd been expecting it from the moment his younger brother's interest sparked. Oh what would mummy think? Sherlock taking on such an important role as sponsor, he very well held John Watson's life in the palms of his hands, and who knew what that meant for the both of them.

/

John stood before the maw of a cave, he wasn't sure if his luck was looking up, or if he was heading to his death by entering. Looking around he swallowed his anxieties and headed in, aside from his curiosity, he just wanted to get out of the storm for a few hours. Digging the flashlight out he flicked it on and immediately felt the press of darkness around him and the small shaft of light. The wind howled along the entrance and he only dared to venture far enough to sit in the shadows, hidden from the opening. Sitting on the ground John took a moment to rest and look through his bag, moving things around and extricating the wrapped package at the bottom. Opening it up he found that it was some kind of bread, pressed tight and dotted with grains.

He chewed in silence, staring out at the entrance. Just the bread wouldn't last more than a few meals before...it dawned on him that he truly was out of his element, how was he going to find food? Was there even game out in the harsh wilderness? Swallowing thickly John put the bread away, packed up and left the cave to scout around. Carefully climbing down a near slope John stopped the second a scream ripped through the wind. Pure dread trickled into his veins and he froze, looking in the direction of the scream. Slowly he continued on, using the low shrubs and thin trees for what little cover they provided. The prospect of picking up whatever the fallen tribute had been carrying tempted him through the woods a little quicker. Now, John knew he was walking on a knife's edge, he had no idea if the killer was still around, but if he could get in close and surprise them, he might just tip things in his favor.

Ducking low he crouched behind some bushes when he heard the telltale engines of the ship that carried the bodies away. He cursed quietly and jumped from cover, taking his chances and praying to his lucky stars as he crashed through the snow covered underbrush and tried to beat the craft as it headed toward him. He was making a racket loud enough to scare any game away, but he could care less as he jumped over a rock and came face to face with the crime scene.

Blood.

The first thing he saw was blood and the body of the boy from District 8. There was a spear lodged into the boy's chest and if John had, had any sense right then and there he would've turned and run when he saw the girl District 8 notice his presence. A million thoughts flooded his mind, what to do next, where to go, and they all meant nothing when the girl locked eyes with him and the blood on her hands looked garishly out of place. In the second it took him to push off from the rock the girl had wrapped a hand around the spear and was tugging it from the corpse.

He slammed into her with enough force to skid them both away from the body and snow flurried into the air, the carrier ship was hovering over them with its engines kicking up the loose dirt. The girl below him screamed, a blood curdling kill or be killed scream that he reciprocated with a growl as they grappled. Their hands tangled over the spear and John had to put all his inhibitions about hitting a girl aside. Thrusting down he head butted her, their skulls thudding painfully and in those dazed moments he wrenched the spear away, flipped it deadly end down and struck her through the chest. She coughed and gagged for a few seconds before falling limp and another cannon went off, the ship was still hovering nearby, having already taken up the boy's body. Not wasting anytime he retrieved the spear, grabbed the backpacks the girl had left and made room for the ship to go about its business.

Standing where he had come into the clearing John watched as the lifeless body was hauled into the air and the ship disappeared, nothing but the bloodstains on the ground to indicate anyone had even been there. Without a word he turned from the scene and trudged through the brush and snow, he couldn't chance being there in case the commotion had attracted unwanted attention.

John took the time to clean his hands and the spear after dropping the packs inside the cave, leaving a pink patch in the surrounding snow. The spoils of his ordeal produced another sleeping bag, another thermal blanket, dried fruits, a knife and miscellaneous other little things. He was safe for now, but he knew he would have to wise up to hunting fast if he truly meant to survive this.

Except his luck ran out and one day, that was how long John had been allowed to stay in the cave. The snow had continued without stopping, John was rolling his bedding up on day 3 of the hunger games when he heard the dull roar of something coming from the back of the cave. Confusion writ on his face and then shock when he saw the wall of water rushing toward him, he didn't even get the chance to scream as it hit him hard. The water swept him under and carried him and his belongings out of the cave. He landed a good fifty yards away from the cave, his backpack, spear and sleeping bag scattered about. Instantly he started shivering, the cold air attacked his body and sapped what body heat he had saved up during the night. Stiffly he got up, retrieved the backpack and spear and moved on lest another wave come crashing out at him again. Leaving the sleep bag-for he had another in his pack-he wrapped his arms around his upper body and tried to keep his teeth from chattering.

Another shelter was what he needed, somewhere to get rid of his sopping clothing and huddle inside his sleeping bag, and a fire and maybe some more food. Gods he was out of his element. So he trudged on, searching and trying to keep the blood flowing to his limbs.

/

Sherlock was livid. Or at least inside he was, on the outside the corner of his mouth turned down and he clutched at his phone. The games had been somewhat uneventful the past few days, so of course the Gamemakers focused on John, showing his sudden departure from the cave and his inevitable demise. They focused on his face and upper body, showing the obvious signs of someone ripe for frostbite and hypothermia. The other tributes were spread out across the map and far between each other, no deaths and nothing interesting meant restless watchers.

Observing with narrowed eyes Sherlock was already weighing the pros and cons of sending John a gift, or waiting to see if he could pull himself together in time. Though, by the look of his lips and fingers, whenever the screen switched back to his wanderings, it wouldn't be long till he succumbed to hypothermia. A commercial break popped onto the screen and almost immediately his phone chimed with a message.

Hypothermia is not long off.  
>M<p>

Sneering at the message he wanted to remark with every little detail on John that made that obvious. He replied quickly.

What gifts are available?  
>SH<p>

Only three days into the event and he had to save John from his own idiocy. Had he ever seen a previous game? Never, ever, stay in one place for too long. Lest the Gamemakers or a tribute find it easy to pick you off. Another chime;

Food, simple weapons, thermal tent, infrared glasses  
>M<p>

Thermal tent  
>SH<p>

The other items were of no consequence, early on they were basic and commonly found in the backpacks, as the game progressed the items became more specific and if things became too tense on the battlefield, a feast was called. No reply from Mycroft came but he knew for a fact his gift would be sent with swiftness. The final melody of an advertisement faded and the screen switched to the sight of a lone male, District 4 if he wasn't mistaken. He looked worse than John and was wandering with no items, obviously lost as he stumbled through the low lying brush, no doubt he wouldn't last the night like that. Whoever had wagered on the boy would be disappointed.

Finally, the cameras turned from the doomed male to another that was sitting at the base of a tree, knees drawn up and arms drawn close to his chest. John had wrapped a thermal blanket around himself for the sake of keeping some warmth in. Slowly the camera panned up to show the glint of a box and the outline of parachute, switch to John's face and he saw the exact moment those beautiful blue eyes caught sight of the gift.

Wide and surprised, the cold forgotten in that instance and Sherlock resisted leaning closer to memorize the moment. Thermal blanket still clutched around himself John reached up as if in worship and gingerly caught the package before sweeping it down to his body to open it. Upon revealing what the gift was Sherlock held his breath when the camera did a close up of John's face as he looked to the sky, eyes searching fruitlessly.

"Thank you!"

Something lurched inside Sherlock and he vaguely registered he was gripping the edge of the sofa. John was magnificent, with his reddened nose and ears, with his shivering body-were those tears? He looked so grateful before the screen switched again and Sherlock almost threw a pillow at the TV when the Capitol was shown the career group. Peeling his hands from the couch Sherlock continued to sit in anticipation.

/

John was busy pulling down the branches he could reach before dragging them to a patch of bushes, he was going to make sure that tonight he wouldn't be found. Setting up the tent, moving branches and situating the brush, John had worked up a sweat even under all his damp clothing. His clothes felt stiff and clammy against his skin and the prospect of not freezing inside of them like a cocoon spurred him on. Inside he zipped the entrance closed, the wind only a dull roar now as he stripped the clothes off and made quick work of getting the spare sleeping bag and thermal blanket out. There wasn't enough room for him to stretch out, just enough that if he pulled his knees to his chest he could lay his clothing over the backpack and fit like a sardine.

Fishing through the pocket of his pants John pulled the one thing he needed desperately at that moment out. His body continued to shiver, but the temperature steadily rose and even though his stomach growled for food, he ignored it in favor of sleeping. Eyes closed he mentally went through counting the remaining tributes left. He'd heard 10 cannon shots at the cornucopia leaving 14 tributes. Then there was the boy and girl from district 8, leaving 12- a crashing boom sounded over head- make that 11. Grimacing he ducked his head lower and hugged the small token to his chest, 10 other tributes and him, how was this ever going to survive?


	2. Chapter 2

BAMF!John

* * *

><p>A week and a half and 5 frozen tributes later, the entire capitol was less than amused with the games. Only 6 tributes left and things looked to be going slower than ever. There was little progress on the battlefield; the career group had dwindled to both tributes from District 1 and the male tribute from District 2. The District 3 girl had split from the career group a few days earlier with a pack of supplies and an injury to her back from fleeing. John was in constant motion, he'd correctly identified the safe fruit bearing plants and hoarded them, snacking on the morsels throughout the day as he trudged on trying to keep the blood circling through his body. The last tribute, a boy from district 9 didn't seem too bad off, like John he was trekking through the sparse trees and rocky terrain, except he was coming close to the edge of the arena and to the line of Gamemaker traps that ran alongside it.<p>

Sherlock had been quiet satisfied with John's progress, he'd adapted fast and by the looks of it no frostbite to hinder him. Mycroft had only been home a handful of times that first week, the entire board was on edge, and they hadn't anticipated how negative the reactions were to the games. No one wanted to watch tributes huddled and freezing each night, only to see them frozen and dead the next morning. From what he could tell there was some kind of discussion or decision in the works from the stiffness in Mycroft's shoulders and the small knit between his eyebrows whenever a call came in and then disappeared the house.

Confiscating his brother's abandoned tea Sherlock sipped at it, he'd been glued to the couch and only left when the bathroom called or the games ended for the night. Sleep lasted only a few hours before he was wandering around the house, finger steepled as he contemplated John and the games and whatever else his mind would grab from the air or his hands on the violin to stream thoughts into notes.

Sherlock was leaning over to place the cup down when the screen came alight with the Capitol's symbol, an announcement was about to be made. He dully noted Mycroft's entrance as he ended a phone call. On screen was one of the huger games board members, he sat alone at a desk with a few sheets of paper and addressed the city. His eyes slid to Mycroft who stood silently by the couch, the man on the TV informed the populous that the board had ruled in favor of sending in firewood to provide warmth against the harsh environment and diminish the threat of hypothermia.

"Mycroft-"

"Hush Sherlock, the Capitol forced our hand to change the terms of the game. It won't happen again."

Interesting, so people would rather drag out the macabre game instead of letting it come to a quiet end. There really was no end to the people's hunger for bloodshed. The announcement concluded and soon the games would begin airing in an hour. Sherlock gave MyCroft a sideways glance, he could see the stiffness of the man's posture, this truly was unprecedented, never in the history of the games have the Gamemakers helped all the tributes to survive.

/

John was in the middle of untangling a rabbit he'd caught with one of the simple snare traps from training, when his gift arrived unnoticed. The rabbit barely had any meat on its bones underneath the bloodstained white fur. He was just thankful the storm had stopped yesterday and now the skies were filled with fluffy grey clouds that let down curtains of soft snow. Gathering the longer length of rope he stuffed it into the bag and used a piece to tie the rabbit to his belt. When he turned around he stopped dead. Sharp blue eyes focused on the package before him, something bulky wrapped in cloth sat not but a few feet away. Looking around he spied no one else and glanced up to the sky calling his thanks before venturing toward the gift.

With just a peek inside John already knew he was in for a treat, firewood! Beautifully cut, dry firewood and he couldn't help the smile that broke his chapped lips. Tying the cloth back together he pulled his backpack on and slung the wood over his shoulder, with food and wood, the day was certainly looking up.

He walked on for most of the morning, the weight of the wood more of a comfort than a burden. The fresh smell of it reminded him of home, and even though his insides twisted with sadness at the thought, it only made the good memories seem brighter. Like his first day of work, gaining his status among the logging crew and coming home to his proud mother. Harry wasn't so impressed but she at least gave him a congratulatory hug. Lost in thought John wandered for hours without seeing a single soul or animal. Things would have been fine, if he hadn't wandered into a trap.

He was just taking a step forward when the earth below his feet shifted, and in a flurry of settled snow and dirt all around him net shot up, bringing him with it. Shouting out John struggled against the ropes and in his panic missed his spear as it slipped through the holes of the net and clattered to the ground. All his wriggling only served to sway him in the air and unsettle snow from the upper branches of the tree he was hanging from. Shifting as best he could he tried to shimmy his backpack off, except the bundle of wood was mashed up into it and the net trap was effectively squishing him in half, the rabbit squelched in an unsavory manor as he was practically siting on it. He tried his best not to panic, but after a few moments he was trying to tear at the trap again and thrashing his legs out. The net swayed gently on its thick ropes and John knew he wouldn't be escaping anytime soon.

Snow fell in light patches throughout the afternoon and John was exhausted, struggling for what seemed like hours with no food and only what snow he could scoop that had settled on his jacket to drink, to say the least he was exhausted. It was nearing twilight from what he could tell when he heard someone in the brush not far off. Huddling in on himself he stretched his neck trying to see who was to the right of him. In the dim light he watched someone stumble from the bushes, staggering on shaky legs and then freezing at the sight of him. He could make out the features of the male, District 9 if he wasn't mistaken, the kid looked confused and surprised. The trap wasn't his. Slowly the young man wandered closer, his eyes taking in John's predicament and John saw him look pointedly at the spear. The mood immediately shifted, the kid practically sauntered over and picked it up, testing its weight in his hands before looking back up at John.

There was a glint in his eyes from the waning sun, and they shone deadly like a predator's. John's heart pounded so loudly he wondered if the other tribute could hear it too, his whole body shook and when the boy jerked back to gain momentum for a strike, John thrashed. He yelled and his hands clawed at the net like a caged animal and then pain exploded in his right leg. Wide, wild blue eyes snapped to the injury and he could see the point of the spear sticking through his pants, glistening with his blood. A pure, unfiltered shriek left his mouth and adrenaline pushed hot and scalding into his veins.

Pushing himself up he reached down, the pain becoming a driving force as he wrapped his hand around the spear's shaft. The weapon gave a tug, jostling between bone and muscle and John could feel blood trickling over his skin. The other tribute shouted something at him but the roar of his heart drowned it out and the next tug pulled the spear from his knee, but not from his grip. His fingers tightened and pushing through the pain he lifted his other hand over, wrapping around the base and he growled low and animalistic.

Survival instincts took over rational thought and John pulled the shaft through the net inch my inch, his knee was on fire and his lungs heaved quickly for breath. The other male tribute could feel his grip slipping, whoever that kid in the net was; he wasn't in his right mind anymore. Where was all this inhuman strength coming from? Without his permission the spear slipped from his grip and he staggered back.

John was on autopilot, survival and self-preservation spurred him on as he quickly and efficiently snatched a handful of the net's rope and sawed through it with quick and precise strokes of the spearhead. A large, gaping hole formed in the net wall and John went tumbling out of the trap. Harsh, laboring breaths rushed in and out of his lungs as he staggered up. Letting the wood and backpack slip from his shoulders, John used the spear as leverage and pinned the other tribute with a stare full of raw determination and immediately the other boy turned to flee. Rising to his full height John leaned back, body pumped full of adrenaline and quick thinking he let the spear fly. It slipped through his bloody hands like a snake and he watched with sick satisfaction as it lodged itself into the meat of the other boy's thigh.

High on triumph and endorphins John barely noticed the sharp pain emanating from his knee and he in fact didn't care as he loomed over his prey. The boy was whimpering and holding the injured leg but John had no sympathy for him, it was kill or be killed. Falling to his good knee over the boy's waist John closed his hands over the tribute's neck and squeezed. It would be over in seconds, if only the kid would just let it happen and stop wriggling. John's hands constructed tighter and tighter, his victim's resistance becoming less and less until the resounding boom of a cannon announced him the victor.

Reclaiming the spear John staggered to his backpack on a shaky leg and basically dragged the other. Sitting down John only just noticed how his body shivered and the cold sweat that slithered down the back of his neck. Breathing loudly he felt tears burn at the edge of his vision, the nerves in his knee were screaming and blazing at the edges, searing him on the inside. John gave a choked sob as his hands hovered over the wound, this just couldn't be the end of him.

The soft crunch of snow made John whip his head to the side and he almost started bawling at the sight of another gift resting just within reach. Loudly he thanked his sponsor, over and over as his hands smeared blood over the box fromi opening it. Inside rested a small red box, opening that too John barely saw through his tears, pain and gratitude overwhelming his senses. Swallowing one of the 3 pills situated under the gauze and bandages John tried to hurry his body before the medicine kicked in. His lungs labored for breath and his stomach swam as he peeled the fabric away to reveal the torn and oozing wound. There was something about see his skin split open, at least 2 inches in length and straight through that made him stop and take a second to compose himself. Carefully, with thick cold fingers he did a patch job with the best of his abilities. Placing gauze on both sides he wrapped a bandage as tight as he could around the injured knee and the freezing temperatures made tying it off a hassle.

Stuffing the rest of the medical supplies into the backpack John didn't stop there, the final rays of light faded from the sky and in the darkness he fumbled worse than before. His fingers tingled and the items felt strange inside the bag, he finally found the box of matches and retrieved his knife from the front. The moon broke through clear patches in the clouds and John could see his breath like steam as he tiredly chipped at the earth. Digging a shallow basin he sluggishly removed two pieces of wood from the cloth bundle and started a fire, wasting a few matches in the process. By the time it was crackling and throwing warmth his way he was dozing where he sat. With what strength he had left John pulled the thermal blanket around himself and fell under the medicine's spell.

/

Swaying slightly, with something akin to being lightheaded, Sherlock flopped back into the couch from where he'd been standing. John was extraordinary, he was strong and resilient and he wanted him to win this. Breathing slowly he closed his eyes to think. John had been in the worst of predicaments and tipped the balance in his favor. Though now he knew the wound in John's knee would surely slow his progress and potentially become his downfall. No, John was at least somewhat smart, adaptive to his surroundings and the pills would at least spare him for the time being. He was so close to the end, only 4 tributes left to contend with and they wouldn't give up easily. Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, the Gamemakers would make a play at driving the tribute's together, this hunger game had lasted long enough and everyone was ready for the victor to be announced.

Mycroft arrived home a few hours later to sound of the violin filling the living room. It stopped the moment he found Sherlock in the living room and was greeted with a pointed stare.

"Traps or feast?"

Giving a slow sigh he had expected this, "Traps of course, get rid of some on the way."

Turning from his brother Sherlock continued playing. Whatever kind of traps they were, he was confident John would persevere. He didn't get much sleep that night, an hour here and there before sunrise washed murky yellow over the Capitol and its inhabitants. Having already been awake Sherlock ate a piece of toast as his 'breakfast' and ignored his brother's departure. There were more important things at hand, like watching what could be the last day of the hunger games.

Taking his customary place on the couch, Sherlock pulled his knees up close and watched the morning news go by before the emblem of the Capitol took its place and the hunger games announcements came up. In the middle of the night one more tribute had been killed off. The footage showed both tributes from District 1 sleeping, well, one of them was sleeping. He could make out the male quietly moving from his bed and over to his partner's. The outcome of this was obvious and Sherlock finished his toast without a second glance to the male killing the female tribute in her sleep.

The recap faded away and they were shown the female tribute from District 3, her name popped up on the lower part of the screen, Talli, as she wadded through some bushes gathering food. It switched again to the male from District 1, Mica who looked to be far from the campsite from the previous night. Then to John, who was sitting by the burned out fire sluggishly redoing his bandages, and finally the male from District 2, Arran who was on the move.

Sherlock knew what was going on, orienting the views with what the tributes were doing before setting the traps into motion, why else would they be switching so much. Back to Talli, the first trap went off, a quiet loud explosion that shook the ground, making her stagger back from the spray of earth and rocks, another one and she sprinting away from the scene. The trap could be heard far off, the screen showed Mica looking in that direction. He paused and listened, except where he was standing soon became an archery range as arrows started whizzing past him, he too fled. The other tributes of the games were greeted with the same treatment; John was busy dodging dive bombing birds with razor like teeth that had been released from seemingly nowhere. Arran was doing a decent job of avoiding the holes that opened up in the earth, till a wrong step sent him falling into one of the pits. Impaled upon the large stakes at the bottom a cannon went off announcing the games were down to the last three tributes.

He watched with narrowed, silvery eyes as the traps did their job, it wouldn't be long no till they were practically crawling over each to get away from them. The entire city was on the edge of its seat, the end was so close that no one dared to change the channel.

/

If he could cut his leg off, John probably would have, for the sake of being able to hobble faster. The damned birds that were currently cawing and snapping at his body made it hard to use the spear as both a crutch and a weapon without stopping. He hadn't dared to take another pill that morning, only bandaging the wound again, he'd bleed through the gauze the night before, no surprise, and it didn't look to be scabbing over anytime soon. Then again, running for his life probably would have ripped it open, he was in a no win situation. Fire licked up his thigh, his whole body felt feverish and the cold air was more a blessing than a curse at the moment.

Stopping for a brief second John aimed a well-timed swipe at a bird, breaking its back and sending it to the ground with a soft thud. In the time he'd taken one out, at least five others swooped in to nip at his hands, pull at his jacket and cut the back of his head with unnaturally sharp beaks. If he was going to go down by a group of rabid birds, he was going to go down with a fight. Blood snaked down the back of his neck and he could feel the cuts on his head throbbing, they were whittling away at him like a piece of wood to be carved. One of the most unpleasant and strangest ways to die he had to admit.

He was about to stop and try swatting a few again when the birds whirled around above him in a cloud before taking flight the way they'd come. John swayed where he stood, confused and in pain. Silence hung in the air, made the forest seem peaceful again, till he was startled from his reflection by shouting. Turning barely a fraction to the left John witnessed two other tributes come rushing from the woods, locked in battle with each other. His stomach dropped at the sight of them, he immediately recognized the two from training, Mica the District 1 tribute and Talli, District 3, both had been obvious candidates for the career group, they looked strong and battle worthy. The male tribute gave chase, yelling at the girl to face him. He would gladly have let them fight it out, except Mica caught sight of him just standing there and stopped. John swallowed thickly and tried not to show weakness, but that didn't hide the fact his right leg was smeared with blood and his face wasn't much better, he was easy prey.

John didn't scream or shout or pray to some god to spare him, he readied his spear, watching the other boy stalk around him like a lion. There was no warning when the other tribute came charging at him, the decent sized dagger in his hands glinting in the light. John didn't have any training in close combat with the spear, he kind of wished he had a shield. Swing it up he blocked the first blow, but that didn't stop Mica though, he kept coming and John knew standing his ground just wasn't going to cut it. Immediately he felt his knee buckle with each shove and jostle, the pain made his head dizzy and before he knew it his whole body was collapsing backwards. Hard earth and dirt ground into the cuts on his head, making him grit his teeth ,he felt the spear fall away and struggled onto an elbow, the boy stood over him, already moving in for the next strike.

For the second time John just narrowly escaped a life ending blow, the dagger swerved off sinking into his left shoulder, as someone went barreling into the side of his attacker. He didn't imagine the agony he'd been feeling could get any worse, but the dagger lodged in his shoulder sent sharp shooting pain through his chest, he choked and coughed. Shakily he lifted his right hand, the scrap between the other two tributes sounding less and less like a fight. Gripping the handle of the dagger he felt it nudge against his collar bone and slip against nerves as he yanked it out, one fell swoop like a bandaid. He cried out, tears streamed down the side of his face, his arm felt numb and useless but his shoulder was a live wire of twitching and exposed tendons. The useless limb hung by his side as he rolled onto his right side and pushed up to see Mica in a headlock. Talli was taking quiet the beating, though with her legs wrapped around the boy's chest, John knew he didn't have much time. The world around him tipped and spun and blurred as he got to his good knee and arm pushing up. It was like someone had stuck his head in a bowl of ice water when he stood, cold air rushed into his lungs as he gasped.

No, he'd come too far to just give up and lay there and die. He was John Watson of District 7 and he could rest when he'd won. Gripping the handle of the dagger he took a steadying breath waiting for his moment, strategy would be to his benefit. Tadita didn't seem too threatened by him, the tribute in her arms staggered to his knees, his hands clawing less and less at her arms. John moved, but not without aggravating his already festering wounds and the sharp cry he gave alerted the female. Her eyes went wide and she clenched so tight around the boy's neck they both heard it snap. The body went limp and they both fell back.

Above them cannon fire sounded and John focused on nothing but moving his limbs to get to the girl as she struggled from under the weight of a dead body. John crushed his knee into the dead tribute's chest, forcing Talli down and she yelled at him, her feet scuffling on the ground. He barely noticed her reaching at him as he swung at her, the pain in his shoulder doubled when a hand clenched around it desperately, she'd latched onto the wound as he'd come down. There was no time to fight her off, he thrust forward, forcing her hand to clench tighter as he pinned her other arm down with his injured knee, swiftly and with no remorse he finished the job, splitting flesh and blood with the dagger to her throat.

One last boom sounded over head as her arm fell away from his shoulder. A soft, pain filled cry escaped his mouth and he all but tripped over himself moving away from the dead tributes. He got maybe 5ft before he just fell back onto the ground, the last thing he saw was the carrier ship overhead and the last thing he heard was someone announcing something over the forest. Whatever it was it could wait, he was tired and every single part of his body ached. Closing his eyes the world turned dark and everything disappeared but the faint beating of his heart.

/

The Capitol was going crazy, the final round had played out so perfectly not even the Gamemakers could have planned for John's incredible comeback of taking both the hunger game's win and the favor of the city. Sherlock was not only invigorated by the sight of John's win, but immensely satisfied with his role as sponsor. He'd spared a rather interesting human being from the cruel fate of the Capitol's entertainment and now the young man was on his way to being greeted as the victor of his District. Siting on the couch Sherlock watched the emblem of the Capitol as it hovered in the blackness, the quiet in the house was broken when the phone in his hand rang. He loathed calls, but answered anyway.

"Hello?"

"Sherlock Holmes I presume," the soft feminine voice was unfamiliar.

"It is."

"President Snow would like to congratulate you on the win of your sponsored tribute."

"Yes, thank you."

"Now I'm calling specifically to offer you the chance to meet the victor after the customary visit to the other districts. There will be a banquet in his honor at the Capitol to which you may meet him publicly and if you wish, meet privately with him for any number of requested days."

Sherlock stared at the coffee table before his eyes flicked around the room languidly, "Yes I would like to meet him on both occasions."

"More information about the banquet will be available as we come closer to the date. How many days would you like to meet with the victor?"

"Whenever I feel like it," he replied, any other arguments would be fruitless.

"Very well we-"

"I'd like to meet him after the banquet as well, at my residence."

"Everything will be arranged. Do you have any other questions?"

"No."

"Have a good day then."

The call ended and Sherlock set the phone on the couch's arm, placing his hands together he closed his eyes, sinking into thought. He was truly looking forward to meeting the victor, and only somewhat annoyed that the older boy would be pranced around the districts like a prized show pony. There was no chance he'd give John the same treatment, if anything John was lucky enough to have been sponsored by him. All the commotion would be shut out when he returned to his home, having indulged his brother's request long enough.

Together they would sit, talk and eat, it wouldn't be anything like the televised interviews. Sherlock wanted to hear John's story, he'd already seen everything played out on the TV, but that wasn't enough. It would never be enough till he had John before him. Getting up Sherlock went to prepare for his return trip.

/

Faint, high pitched beeping roused John from his sleep. It drilled into his brain and festered without permission. Slowly he opened his eyes, the room was blindingly white, it felt like a dream and everything had a hazy glow to it. The machines he was hooked up to made various little noises, a hiss there, a beep here and an annoying clicking he really wished would stop. Groaning he tried to rub the sleep from his eyes, only to find he was strapped down to the bed he was laying on and the beeping increased when he struggled. A soft keen died in the back of his throat and turned into a shuddering breath, sharp pain lanced from his shoulder and into his system. Looking over he could see the tubes that trailed out from his left arm and the bandaging around the wound, he hadn't completely healed yet, how long had it been anyway? Days? Hours?

He heard another hiss and then the cool sensation of something flowing into his veins made any protests fade to quiet breathing. The medicine worked quickly into his system, making his vision go dark before the drug induced sleep finally took hold.

* * *

><p>Pardon any errors, it's reaaally late.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

John squinted as he stepped off the train, it was a cloudless sunny day and he was back in District 7. Home. The place where he'd been born and spent his life living, it felt like years since the reaping day. Being presented to the district reminded him of the contests they used to have a school. Everyone cheered and clapped, all he needed now was a ribbon stating 1st place and he'd be set. The reunion with his family was broadcasted everywhere, his father hugged him briefly but the one his mother gave him was crushing. Harry looked like she wanted to punch him and hug him, but for the sake of making the moment look good she settled for a hug. The celebration of returning champion was anything but quiet. Everyone had turned out, the district was filled with laughter and children playing in the streets as the town's people gathered in the main square to eat and bask in attention of the Capitol. John was just happy to be back and the day continued on until he was showed to where he and his family would be staying after his parade around the districts was done.

The houses set up in the victor's village were lush and spacious, they reminded him of the Capitol and deep down in his heart he was truly thankful to his sponsor for getting him through the trials of the hunger games. Without those gifts he's be dead and his family would be mourning, not celebrating. The day ended all to quickly and again he found himself saying good bye to his family, did it ever stop?

Back on the train John was thankful that everyone else was too tired to bother him when he went straight for his room. He was tired and leaving his home left a put at the bottom of his stomach. Lying in bed with the lights out he smoothed the small wooden token through his fingers, it would be over soon and things would go back to normal for a year, and then they would have to do it all over again.

John tried to sleep, like most nights in the train, it didn't work. The nightmares came in blues of colors and images and feelings. He felt fear, he felt dread and worry grip him tight and try to choke the life out of him. There was no way out but to fight, all the tributes he'd killed he relived it, saw their faces as the life bleed out and onto his hands, soaking them red. Most nights he woke up screaming with his hands fisted in the sheets and sweat cooling in his skin. Other nights he didn't dream at all and woke groggy and exhausted. The hunger games never left him and at night he fought for his life.

The rest of the districts went by in a blur and district 3 had been especially unwelcoming. He didn't blame them though, he'd essential killed their chance to be fawned over by the Capitol at the last second, but a kill was a kill and John was the victor. When he reached the Capitol his schedule was far from being cleared. The people wanted to see him, wanted to talk and shake his hand like he was some hero and John felt as though the smile on his face would never leave. Only at night was he able to huddle under the covers, think of home and hope the nightmares didn't come again.

After a sleepless night John was informed he'd be meeting with some of the officials and then going to a banquet in his honor at the president's house. The one thing he was looking forward to, after all his stylist's chatting and gossiping was that his sponsor would be at the dinner as well, and he would finally get to say his thanks. The entire day John couldn't help his fidgeting, he was excited, nervous even to see the person who'd taken an interest in him. Truly he wanted to ask why, why him? He just felt like some poor boy from district 7 with barely a chance compared to the careers.

During the day things had been hectic, traveling from one place to another, shaking hands like it was going out of style and keeping up with his happy victor demeanor. When all was said and done and his stylists were fussing with his hair John felt drained. He'd kept up admirably, but the games lingered with him even during the day, phantom pains lanced through his knee, his left shoulder ached and his nerve prickled as if being watched, as if he was being stalked by some invisible enemy. The only reason his team hadn't notice, he attributed to the fact everyone was so caught up in the lavish welcomes that his own personal turmoil was less than fore front in their minds. If anything, John held out for as long as possible before escaping to the bathroom or a deserted hallway to clench his teeth and try to rub the pain away with shaking hands.

John examined himself in the mirror when his team left to go get ready as well. The occasional was formal so they'd fitted him into a suit with a deep, forest green tie and cufflinks with a dash of the same color. By the time everyone was ready and they were riding to the president's house John had worked himself into a state of tired anxiousness. Which to say didn't make meeting his sponsor for the first time any less nerve wrecking.

Someone had to be pulling his leg, right? Right? John stood as if frozen, his mouth open as if to say speak but nothing came out except a confused noise and he looked around. This was a joke, it had to be. Standing in front of him, as introduced by a man much taller than both of them, was his sponsor. His _sponsor_ looked to be about 5ft and underfed and John, well John was around 5'7" and he felt like he was staring down at a child. When he finally met the other boy's eyes he instantly saw them narrow, not to mention they were a pretty pale blue, and looked to be scrutinizing him with an intensity he'd never seen before.

"I'm Mycroft Holmes and this is my younger brother, Sherlock."

"O-oh, hello, I-I'm Joh-"

"We know."

John didn't miss the way Mycroft's lips pursed at his brother's rude intrusion, but continued anyway, "I would like to congratulate you on your won. But please excuse me, there's someone I must talk to."

The man disappeared and John felt an awkward silence descend over them, they were standing off to the side of the party away from where people were milling everywhere, eating and chatting and having a good time. He felt like he'd just pulled the short straw and was now being introduced to the finer points of uncomfortable situations.

"S-so, you're my sponsor, I never would have expected someone so…," John didn't miss the eyebrow that quirked up, waiting for the rest of the sentence, "I didn't think anyone would take an interest in me is all."

Letting out a shaky breath he hoped he'd saved the conversation from being a complete failure. He watched Sherlock, waiting for a reply, the kid was definitely playing up the 'mysterious' card and he looked the part too. Unruly black hair curled around his pale face and accentuated cheekbones gave him an air of royalty, if you didn't include the way his eyes seemed to pierce right through him. Like he was an open book and with just one look Sherlock had read him from front to back and memorized all the lines.

"You're interesting John," was the simple reply and it felt nothing like an answer, in fact it only brought up more questions.

He gave Sherlock a lopsided smile and tried not to fidget, he settled for shoving his hands into his pockets, "So…I've been thinking of what I wanted to say to you, to my sponsor, and well I'm not really good at all this. I just wanted to say thank you, for sending me those gifts and for…for keeping me alive."

Sherlock was not only enthralled but enchanted as John spoke, his tribute tried to look confident but his beautiful blue eyes shifted this way and that-he was embarrassed. John looked positively handsome and maybe that wasn't the best reaction to the older boy trying to articulate a thank you for what he'd done-which had been mostly pure common sense-and Sherlock exhaled through his nose. John was absolutely magnificent and boy didn't even know it, he was oblivious and Sherlock squashed down the feeling of annoyance that it brought up.

"Would you like to dance?"

John stopped talking, well he'd been rambling really because Sherlock's intense stare made him feel like if he didn't say something they'd be trapped in another awkward silence. But he hadn't been expecting _that_.

"Uhm, d-dance? I don't know, people-"

"Who cares what people think," Was the curt reply, "I asked if _you'd_ like to dance, not them and their opinions."

"I'm not very good though."

John fidgeted, shifting his weight, truly he wasn't, he could remember all the times he'd stepped on a girl's toes on accident at one of the school's dreary dances that didn't last longer than curfew and was chaperoned by peacekeepers, as if that didn't make it any less awkward. Swallowing thickly he watched Sherlock hold a hand out, thin fingers beckoning him from the safety of being outside of the crowd. His sponsor was asking something of him and who was he to deny the boy? If it had been a girl he probably wouldn't have hesitated. Nodding quickly he took Sherlock's hand; he didn't trust his voice not to crack or waver with how nervous he was.

He found himself among a myriad of other couples on the floor, since the occasion was of a more formal nature, the music was light and instrumental and John felt heat rise up around his neck as Sherlock took the leading position. It felt just a little ridiculous but John obliged as the wispy boy started to move. Inside he died a little, he felt inexperienced and bit like a clumsy oaf as he shuffled and tried to find the rhythm that Sherlock so effortlessly fell into.

By the time the music changed he'd gotten the hang of it and even though Sherlock hadn't asked, he stuck around for another song. With his eyes no longer on his feet he let them fall on his sponsor's face and maybe that wasn't such a good idea because Sherlock was staring back at him, intense and unblinking. He missed a step and felt the hands on him squeeze as he righted himself and caught up.

"S-so how old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"Ah."

"You're wondering how someone as young as me could become a sponsor, yes? Not so difficult when you have money and a brother in the government."

John's eyes instinctively flicked around to spot Mycroft, seeing the tangible form of a man who held a place in the invisible government that kept all the districts in line. It was like seeing a ghost.

"I can't say enough how thankful I am that you helped me, without you I don't think I could've survived."

Sherlock wasn't prepared for the smile that turned his away, full of sincere gratitude and the dizzying fact that John was so much taller than him. He'd known that fact from the start, it wasn't hard to see after watching John for so long, but now he was leading the victor around the dance floor like the games had never happened and it twisted in his heart. There was no hiding what his eyes saw, how John limped when he entered the ballroom, the stiffness in his left arm, his victor was still suffering. Was helping him so praiseworthy even though the physical wounds were gone? He gave John a tight smile, the least he could do was keep those musing to himself.

The song ended soon after and John politely left the dance floor find his team, they'd chattered endlessly about his sponsor, eager to see who it was. No doubt they wanted details and John just needed a little bit of time away from the imposing boy. There was nothing wrong with Sherlock, he just hadn't ever met someone with so much _presence._ A pair of eyes watched him go before their owner disappeared into the crowd as well.

Most of the night John felt himself drawn back to Sherlock and worked up the courage to talk to him, to which he found to be immensely troubling. He figured it out after a while, when he spotted Sherlock across the room and saw how foreboding he looked. Arms crossed and eyes all but shooting daggers at people who looked as if they wanted to chat him up. Though it was different when he approached and a part of him relished that his sponsor seemed pleased by his presence.

At the end of the night, when everyone was shuffling out John was escorted away from his styling team by instruction to wait in the empty ballroom alone. Luckily he didn't have to wait long before he saw Sherlock and Mycroft across the room, heading straight for him. That couldn't be good, had he done something wrong?

"John, it was so nice to meet you, I do hope you had a lovely evening," with a handshake Mycroft was gone and he looked to Sherlock for answers.

"Come John, the night is still young; I requested your presence after the banquet."

Somewhat dumfounded John hurried after the younger boy, "What do you mean?"

"We're going to my place for tea."

Outside there was a car waiting for them and he reluctantly slipped into the back seat with Sherlock.

"No one said anything about-"

"Arrangements were made weeks ago."

He stared at Sherlock, apparently someone was alright with him going along with this, though he wasn't so sure himself. Looking over the backseat he spotted the clock and grimaced, tea at 11 o clock at night? Not like he needed the caffeine, he was exhausted. Relenting John sank back into the seat and sat in silence as they travelled through the darkened city.

By the time they arrived he'd dozed off and was roughly shaken awake and then practically dragged out of the car. Disorientated John let the boy herd him through a door and then up a flight of stairs through another door and then stopped. It was dark and he didn't dare move while he heard Sherlock move around, apparently weaving through things on the floor before a lamp across the room illuminated everything.

John winced and blinked a few times before he finally took in what was around him. The sitting room was filled with papers and books and a mug here and there. It looked lived in with its garish wallpaper and fuzzy carpet, it looked homey. It looked warm. His eyes lightened onto the skull on the mantel and his eyebrows shot up.

"A friend," Sherlock informed as he walked away from the lamp, "well, I say friend."

Hesitantly he followed the boy into the kitchen and was floored by the sheer amount of…_things_ in it. He wasn't even sure how to describe most of the glassware and wandered around it in awe. Vaguely he noted Sherlock was doing something in the kitchen and turned to help and found himself being taught how to prepare tea. Most of the lesson went well till he burned his finger after spilling some of the hot water. He was quick to run it under cold water and tried to ignore the fact Sherlock was just watching him. The boy's eyes were doing that thing again, where they swept over him so quickly he wasn't sure they even moved until they focused on his face again.

After the tea was steeped and he had his hands around the warm mug he leaned against the counter as he watched Sherlock tend to things on the kitchen table.

"Tell me about yourself John."

John's eyebrows drew together, what else was there to tell and as if Sherlock had read his mind the boy spoke up, "tell me about your life in district 7."

Ah, well, that narrowed it down. Taking a drink he started with his schooling, as far back as he could remember and just started talking. The only indication Sherlock was listening were the occasional smirks at something funny and when he looked right John when he was telling a particularly emotional memory. Like hearing about broken equipment on the logging sites and hoping his father returned unscathed. Or when he'd gotten into his first fight and when Harry came out to their parents and had confided in him beforehand.

When he reached the more recent years when life slowed down and then experiencing the hunger games he didn't know what to say, just that he was thankful for Sherlock's help again. Silence reigned over them for a few minutes before Sherlock got up and wandered to the living room.

"John, I'd like to play something for you."

Taking that as his cue he followed into the sitting room.

"Sit."

He took a place on the couch across the room and watched Sherlock dig around on the desk by the two windows before pulling out an instrument with strings. Quietly he watched and waited and then Sherlock started to play such sweet music. It was magical the way he held the violin so delicately but his hands commanded it like it a weapon, the bow bending to his will and producing such wonderful tones. After the song ended he clapped and smiled.

"That was brilliant!"

A smile lighted onto Sherlock's lips before it was tugged away at the sound of his phone chiming on the desk. Letting the instrument down on the coffee table he moved to see who would be texting at this time of night and felt a scowl tug his lips down.

Do let John get  
>some sleep.<br>M

Turning from the desk he looked to John who still had that silly smile on his face, he hated to see it go. Setting his things down he tried to return the smile.

"It is late, there is a car waiting to take you to your hotel."

His heart gave a rather painful beat when he saw the corners of John's lips fall and then he nodded quickly, "Oh yeah, okay."

It sounded more like an apology coming from the older boy's mouth and he silent cursed Mycroft for intruding. Together they walked down the flight of stairs and John noted a few more doors down a hallway to the side but didn't say anything as they left. Sitting by the curb was a car and before he could leave he felt Sherlock catch his sleeve, tugging him back. Turning he caught Sherlock's gaze, open and shinning in the moonlight and he swallowed thickly.

"John, I enjoyed this evening, I hope to meet with you again."

"Y-yeah, of course, I'd like that."

He was sure there was more he wanted to say, the words just wouldn't find their way out of his mouth and he felt like maybe he should be doing something else instead, but what he didn't know. So he settled for another charming smile before slipping into the car. Sherlock watched it disappear before sweeping back into his apartment and laying into the violin with less than easy strokes. He stayed up the rest of the night abusing the strings and thinking.

/

John woke with only a soreness in his leg that next morning, the nightmares had been kept at bay by the utter tiredness he'd felt the night before. He was finally going home and he couldn't be more excited to leave the city and see his family. The morning went by quickly and soon he was on the train heading out to his district. Truthfully, he was marginally sad to leave the Capitol and in the back of his mind he wondered how he would ever keep his word to meet with Sherlock again. It wasn't exactly customary for people of the districts to leave and go to the Capitol, but maybe they'd make an exception for him. John made it a point to ask the mayor of their district on the procedures that surrounded a victor leaving the district.

When the smell of pine and the wet forest floated through the train John was up and gathering his things and practically shoving his way out and into the arms of his waiting family. There were some tears, mostly from his mother, and then they set about getting him settled in the victor's village. That side of the town was exceptionally quiet; no one else lived there but John and his family. Life in district 7 hadn't stopped and even though they were receiving gifts from the Capitol, his father continued to work and Harry went to school and his mother helped out at the primary school. And John? Well John offered to join his father but the man insisted he stay home for a while and rest, he'd been through a lot.

John could take a hint, they didn't need a damaged member on their team, on edge and limping for no reason. His mother obliged to let him tag along to the nurse's office and while the work was nothing like logging, which was full of disasters in the waiting, John found he had quite a knack for it. The children were always awed to see him when they came in with their bruises and cuts and quieted down when he spoke softly to them. As much as he hated to hear it, his mother kept cooing about what a natural he was and when he clucking became too much he left to walk around the district.

It was a full month before John had any kind of contact with the Capitol. His attempts at making appointments with the mayor were brushed off like any other person so that plan failed. The call came one day in the middle of summer on a balmy Saturday from the telephone in the kitchen, a women spoke to him on the phone. After asking her name, to which she answered Anthea, John was informed that his presence had been requested by none other than Mycroft Holmes himself. Odd, but he accepted none the less with 3 pairs of eyes watching him. He'd been told to pack clothes, not how many though, so he guessed for at least a few days, which meant his mother hovered over him trying to give advice. Packing took longer than it should have unfortunately.

The train ride to the Capitol was quiet, no stylists to fuss over him or trying to gossip about other people, it was pleasant to watch the scenery go by. At the station a car took him through the city, it was a marvel to see it in the daylight and watch all the new sights go by. The car pulled up a long driveway and let him out to the welcoming party of two Avox, a male who took his belongings and woman who beckoned him to follow.

Inside the mansion it was quiet and he saw a number of going about different chores as they walked through unnoticed. The woman led him out onto a patio and he was speechless at the 'backyard' of the house. The green grass seemed to stretch on forever before hitting the wall of the outer city and recognized they were at the edges of the Capitol. Looking around he spotted the man who'd called on him a few yards away sitting under an umbrella in, weirdly enough, a suit with a glass of something. Walking over he took the offered seat and had to admit, Mycroft had style.

"Greetings John, you look well. Been keeping busy?"

"Hello and yeah kind of, helping out where I can."

The man gave him a smile, one that at the same time said he knew exactly what John was doing and somewhat smug at the same time.

"I'm sure you're wondering why I've called you out here."

John nodded.

"As you may not know, in two days' time it will be Sherlock's seventeenth birthday."

At the information John felt his mood lift a little, there was going to be a party and he'd been invited!

"Naturally Sherlock knows I plan to have a party for him, what he does not know, is that you will be there."

That made it all the better, a smile crept onto John's face, he would get to surprise Sherlock, he only hoped his sponsor would be as excited as he was.

"Thank you, Mycroft, for letting me be here."

"No thanks is needed John. Now, we'll have to get you fitted for some clothes before the party, so if you would follow Anthea she'll lead you to the tailor."

Following Mycroft's eyes John was a little unsettled that he hadn't noticed the woman come up behind him. With a quick farewell he followed the woman, the next few days seemed like too long to wait to see Sherlock.


	4. Chapter 4

John woke with a scream dying in the back of his throat and the feeling of falling throwing his world into chaos. He'd tossed and turned and thrown himself off the bed bringing the blankets with him. Panting for breath he clutched at his knee having landed on it awkwardly and tried to ease the pain. He'd dreamt of being trapped in the net and being too weak to fight off the other tributes, they stabbed and tore at him and no matter how loud he begged they wouldn't stop, not till he was dead and then one of them would be the victor.

Dragging himself into the bed John rearranged the blankets into some semblance of order before lying awake and staring at the ceiling. The dreams were getting creative now, no longer the things he'd experienced but twisted and tormenting real variations. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and laid there long enough for the sun to rise and brighten his room.

Morning at the mansion was nothing like mornings at the district. After showering in the connected bathroom and dressing in jeans and a burgundy t-shirt John was only slightly uncomfortable with the fact an Avox was standing and waiting for him in the hallway. He hadn't been sure what to say but the female merely gestured for him to follow. From there John had a personal escort most of the morning, from breakfast, with no sight of Mycroft or Anthea, to the tailor where he tried on what the man had gotten done the day before. A few more adjustments and then John found himself alone, the Axox had bowed and then disappeared leaving him standing in random hallway.

It wasn't too bad, he remembered how to get back to the dining room and from there to his bedroom, but looking around wouldn't be so bad right? He started in one direction and decided if a door tickled his fancy he may as well try it. Three bathrooms, five bedrooms and a room completely bare of anything, John found a hall of portraits. The Holmes family through the generations, he wandered back and forth for a few minutes, it was interesting to see the regal looking men.

As lunch rolled around John was retrieved by an Avox and treated to the appearance of Anthea who informed him Mycroft wouldn't be back till later the next day. She didn't stay long, mobile phone leading the way as she left. His day continued rather quietly, after asking for a tour John was pleasantly surprised to be led around in a more precise fashion than before. Later he backtracked to certain areas, the library, and an actual gallery, John kept himself busy with the sights till dinner. Which, again he was alone for and the evening went by quietly after he retreated to the library. Wandering around the various shelves John vaguely wondered how often either of the Holmes brothers actually came in there, or rather, he wondered what books Sherlock preferred to read. Or if the younger boy had any favorites, he would have to ask the next time he got a chance.

The next day, John didn't wake up so dramatically, he had a weary feeling that lasted through the morning from the restless sleep before. He changed into the clothes the tailor had fixed and by midmorning John sat on the terrace watching workers flowing in and out of the mansion. The backyard was being transformed, a group of men were snapping together the beginnings of a dance floor, tents were being set up, tables dragged out and chairs were set up. Food was prepared en masse and everything had to be just right to the party planner's specifications.

While all of preparation wasn't anything new to John, he'd seen his mother fuss over silverware for kids and plates, what he hadn't expected was the anticipation gradually building over the day. Sherlock would be there and he would finally get to see the other boy after so long. At least, a month felt rather long in the districts.

Mycroft showed up minutes before the party was slated to start and made himself scarce after greeting John. Guests started to show up, and it wasn't some measly trickle, no people were showing up in groups. It was a little disorientating John had to admit, he'd been wandering around the tents and suddenly there were people flooding the backyard. Honestly, he hadn't realized so many people had been invited.

John felt as though he stuck out like a sore thumb in the backyard, there were at least a hundred guests, all in casual wear and yet somehow each of them had been able to pull off some kind of ridiculous accessory to give their look a little extra oomph. He'd seen a bright neon pink purse covered in spikes, a woman holding a dog the shade of teal and a man with a beard cut into ornate designs. Suffice to say, he felt anything but normal around these people and felt a little comfort in the fact Mycroft had stuck to a suit and Anthea was in an off the shoulder dress that was a pretty shade of purple. John had barely left the mansion and mingled into the crowd when people started coming up to him, gushing over his performance and listing off the things he'd done. The phrase "grin and bear it" repeated in his head so he listened with a kind smile and tried not to think of how the people in front of him couldn't possible imagine the kind of pain each and every one of his kills caused him.

By the umpteenth person he finally excused himself and all but ran to the tables of food. Maybe if he stuffed his face people would leave him alone to eat, at least he hoped so. Though, looking at the creative spread of food, John isn't really sure where to start and so he settled for something he recognized and meandered away to eat in peace. Sitting at one of the outer tables by himself John watched the large crowd of people. Music filled the air and the steady hum of conversations was a complimenting buzz. The tops of the open tents swayed in the gentle breeze and people were taking lazy swirls around the dance floor. It felt odd and out of place how restrained and quiet everyone was, much different from the parties in district 7. Everyone would usually cram three or four birthdays into one big party and the house would be exceptionally loud. The overspill would find their way into the small backyard, a fence-less patch of grass really, and for one day everyone would celebrate and be happy.

Pulled from his thoughts by the collective group of people turning in one direction John saw in the distance that Mycroft, standing next to non-other than Sherlock himself, was greeting the boy with a hand on his shoulder. Quickly he joined the crowd, saved by the fact all the other adults were much taller than him, he bided his time near the back as people filtered around to say hello to the birthday boy before wandering back to the party. Excited was only the start of his feelings, more so he was ridiculously nervous and John couldn't help but wipe his palms on the side of his thighs. The crowd thins faster than he anticipated and when a couple moves away from in front of him he bares the full brunt of two, beautiful stormy grey eyes locking onto him. They widen slightly and John could only describe the light feeling in his chest as relief and happiness mixed together. Sherlock stepped forward and John quickly met him halfway.

"John!"

"Sherlock."

"This is a-"

"You've gotten taller," John blurted out and he felt the heat of embarrassment threaten to burn him alive.

It was true though, he hadn't expected Sherlock to have grown, but at least an inch or so had been added in the past month, from what he could tell. Other than that Sherlock looked the same, clean pressed clothes and wild curly hair just like he remembered him. John cleared his throat and tried to salvage the moment.

"It's good to see you Sherlock."

To that he was gifted a small smile, "I'm pleased to see you here John, at least this dreadful party won't be an entire disaster."

From there the two weren't exempt from the same kind of treatment John has been receiving earlier. If anything, people seemed more willing to strike up a conversation when John was near Sherlock, a convenient way of easing into exchanged words with the dark haired boy. Together they escaped to John's previous table with plates of food, Sherlock's considerably less filled than Johns. The party continued and John obliged to tell his sponsor what had been happening while he was away, life was like usually except his change in career seemed to becoming a more obvious choice. He listened when Sherlock spoke, his lips flew through words like an arrow through the sky, and the boy covered a wide range of topics, including three different experiments he was conducting, each involving human body parts, his mostly thwarted attempts to help the peacekeepers in some of their more mind-boggling cases and all around living life as he saw fit. Though, it didn't stop John from noticing the bags under the younger boy's eyes or just how thin he looked in the afternoon light.

"So, 17, how does it feel to be one year older?"

"Much like any other day of the year. All of this," he made a grand gesture at the party, "is completely superfluous; I see no need for it."

"You don't like celebrating your birthday?"

"I don't like people, who obviously don't know me, celebrating the day I was born for reasons other than spoiling themselves on food and drink."

"I'm here."

There's a pregnant pause and John watched as steel blue eyes slid over to stare at him, "Yes, John you are. Though I think it's safe to say you are more than just _people_."

Another grin found its way back onto John's face and then Sherlock was standing up, holding his hand out and he had a flashback of the first party they met at. No use in declining he figured and accepted the hand and with great effort squashed down the need to protest over holding hands all the way to the dance floor, because really, he could find it himself.

Just like before Sherlock took the lead position again; the boy was commanding even when he wasn't talking! They started to dance and John mentally patted himself in the back for not tripping up in the first few steps. With only one other occasion of them dancing to compare this particular dance to, John found it to be much easier to follow along. When the song ended John was ready for another but Sherlock pulled him from the dance floor and through the crowd, weaving in and out with expertise that made him think the boy had a bit of practice at it.

There's no communication, John just followed, because when he realized they weren't going back to the party excitement rushed over him, he was eager to see where Sherlock was leading them. They go around the side of the mansion where more lush green grass spreads out, down steps through gardens of various flowers and John can see over the boy's shoulder where they're headed. Sprawling out in front of them as they fly down the stairs is a maze, a huge, finely kept hedge maze and in the afternoon sun it looks inviting and fun. When they reach the entrance Sherlock stopped and looked at him.

"When I was 10, I memorized the entirety of this maze and the secret places in it...would you like to see them John?"

"That sounds marvelous; I'd love to see them."

Without another word Sherlock lead the way in and John stayed a step behind as he followed his curly haired guide.

He didn't know exactly how much time had passed; Sherlock offered up the occasional commentary about some of his fonder memories of the maze. The brother's father had been the one to request the maze design and planting, as a gift to their mother. Inside that maze were areas for her to go to, or for the two of them to walk its corridors when time saw fit that they could enjoy each other's company without interruption. Though now it was mostly abandoned, tended to by the gardeners, Sherlock hadn't been in the maze since his younger years.

Their first stop came quicker than John expected and when they turned a corner he found himself standing in a medium sized clearing with a large pond in the middle and benches around it. Flashes of white and gold danced over the water's surface from the reflected sun and lily pads cluttered together, their flowers making pleasing accents amidst all the green. They don't stay long, just enough for Sherlock to wander around the circle, examining everything before hurrying them away.

There were two more stops along the way before Sherlock announced they would be at the heart of the maze and John was stunned to find a concrete structure at their destination. Two dark doors stood in odd contrast to the hedges in either side of them, he could see the large padlock and chain around the handles deterring trespassers, but that didn't stop Sherlock from striding forward and producing something from his pocket. It wasn't a key, because, no, that would be to easy, the younger boy stooped to pick at the lock, it took him less than a minute and when it clicked open he let out a satisfied hum before untangling the chain. Leaving the length of metal in the grass Sherlock swept the doors open and John followed him in, it was crazy, it was downright expensive looking inside. Grass gave way to plush carpet and padded chairs sat beside bookshelves with knickknacks and novels filling their insides.

"Wow."

That wasn't even the half of it John noted, aside from the family portraits hanging on the walls and the large desk on the other side of the room, the ceiling wasn't any old ceiling. The concrete walls curved upwards, ending abruptly to metal and then sloping further up, a glass dome let in the natural light of the waning afternoon. It was awe inspiring and he loved the feel of the room. Sherlock closed the doors and strode further in, waving a hand to indicate the place.

"My mother would take my brother and I here in the summer, we'd leave the doors open and she'd read stories to us about silly knights and princesses."

John wandered over to the bookshelf, "What was your favorite story?"

"Oh please John, they were fairy tales, made up, who could enjoy them?"

He didn't buy it, looking over his shoulder at the younger boy John waited for an answer. It was obvious though, as Sherlock stated at the bookcase, he remembered something.

"Oh fine," he walked over and reached up to a particularly thick book, "it's a story from Russia, called Prince Hedgehog."

John watched as Sherlock skimmed through the contents, the spine of the book was faded and the pages yellowed, but in a way that said someone got some use out of it, someone kept coming back to the stories within.

"Would you read it for me?"

The turning pages stopped, "You can-"

John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock heaved a dramatic sigh.

"Tedious."

The boy proceeded to flop down where he was standing and leaned up against the closest chair, John joined him, siting close enough that their shoulders touched. His sponsor began, telling of a king and queen and their desire to have a baby. Except they were gifted with a baby hedgehog and while they were not happy, decided to raise him anyway. John listened, Sherlock's voice was quiet and steady and soothing, not to mention the other boy was exceedingly warm against his side. He didn't know at part he'd nodded off at, just that his sponsor continued to read and wash over him on pleasing tones. The few minutes John did stay asleep, he would have to admit later, had been the most restful he had in the past few week, suffice to say, when the warm voice finally stopped talking he roused from his nap.

"Ah jeez, m'sorry fell asleep."

Picking his head up off of Sherlock's shoulder (he didn't remember doing that) and yawning he turned to look at his sponsor, who was staring at him. Beautiful grey blue eyes searched over his face before locking gazes with him.

"No, no, it's quite...quite alright."

It might have been his imagination, but it sounded as though Sherlock's voice was getting softer and when John smiled sheepishly just maybe they were leaning in gradually. Yes, it felt like they were closer, he noted their thighs were touching now and Sherlock's stare was lazily roaming over his face, no matter though, he was doing the same exact thing. Maybe, John pondered, it wasn't so bad being like this, with Sherlock, so close that he could smell whatever shampoo the kid used and notice that Sherlock's lips were a pretty pale pink. Not so bad at all.

If you didn't count that one government position holding brother had either the best or worst timing in the entire world chose that moment to knock rather loudly on the doors before entering. Both boys sucked in a breath and John lamented the loss of Sherlock's warmth as the other all but jumped up from where he had been sitting.

"Sherlock, hiding away I see."

"Not hiding, being a good host Mycroft, the maze has many things to share."

John stood as well and felt the biting pain in his leg flare up a bit; Sherlock put the book away and turned to his brother.

"What do you want?"

"We're about to cut the cake, can't do that without the birthday boy can we?"

Sherlock sneered at him, "Come John, Mycroft can waddle his way out alone."

Swallowing a laugh John followed the younger boy, giving the older man an apologizing shrug before catching up with his sponsor. Exiting the maze went much faster and John guessed the boy was eager to get away from his brother, the man _was_ rather intimidating. They rejoined the party much to everyone's happy greeting and John hovered off to the side as one of the older traditions to birthday parties was enforced by the missing older brother. Though, he found it rather comical to see Sherlock looking extremely bored as he made the first cut into one of the many cakes. His sponsor all but fled the scene with his piece of cake as one of the chefs took his place to cut and the others distributed cake out to those who wanted it. John wasn't about to pace up the chance for birthday cake, because honestly, birthday cake tasted better than any other kind of cake.

He found Sherlock sitting at their table looking rather morosely at his piece before going at it with a fork, the mangled aftermath was a mess of vanilla cake and frosting. Sitting down John laughed at the sight and dug into his enthusiastically.

"Come on, birthday cake is the best."

"Oh please, this cake is like any other cake. The notion that because it is my birthday makes it taste better is preposterous."

John smiled and took another bite, humming in contentment and enjoyed the way Sherlock's eyes narrowed a faction. The younger boy smirked at his victor's display and pushed his plate away and he leaned back into the chair and crossed his arms to watch the party.

"How long will you be staying here John?"

"Um, I'm not sure, your brother invited me for the party, I don't want to overstay my welcome or anything."

"John, come now, wouldn't you like to stay in the Capitol for a few days, at least to see the sights? I'm sure all that parading around didn't leave you much time to enjoy the finer things the city can offer."

"I don't know if your brother-"

"Don't worry about it John, I'll talk to Mycroft and have this sorted out."

There was something about the way Sherlock smiled after that statement that told John he might be expecting more than just one more day in the Capitol. Not that he minded, just, he liked it when Sherlock smiled, and if staying in the Capitol meant seeing more of that, well, he couldn't really complain.

"Alright, sounds like a plan."

"Good," and Sherlock disappeared from his side into the crowd.

Briefly John thought he should call his mother and tell her he wouldn't be back for a few days, but he was too distracted by the joy swirling around inside him to care too much about it.


End file.
